


This Bird Has Flown

by SegaBarrett



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: F/M, Season 5B
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/pseuds/SegaBarrett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Todd takes what he wants, but Lydia's not giving up without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Bird Has Flown

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Breaking Bad, and I make no money from this.
> 
> A/N: Written for the Breaking Bad Kink Meme. 
> 
> Warning: Character death, but not anybody you'll miss.

She can smell gas. It must be coming off of Pinkman. Lab smell. Meth cooking smell.

It mixes with the smell of blood. Is she bleeding, or is Pinkman, or are they both?

The wetness of Todd’s tongue is lingering on her neck. The words he said – “It’s okay, Miss Quayle. It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

He did though. It aches in her thighs and her breasts where he grabbed her, groped her. She can feel rather than see the bruises.

She flexes her jaw; the gag has been removed. The binds haven’t been, though, and she realizes she’s lying on her back, lying on top of the ropes. Her arms feel like they’ve fallen asleep.

She can hear chains jangling as Pinkman comes over and cranes his head in to look at her. He’s much more bedraggled than she remembered him, and he smells awful, like he hasn’t bathed in months. He probably hasn’t. She curls her nose at it.

“Pinkman,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes, feels breath way too close to hear, feels something shoved deep inside her and hears herself screaming in her head but not being able to get it out because of the gag, hears Todd’s voice going _that’s good, that’s good, you’re okay._

Feels fury, feels stupid – why did she follow him out of the café, into the car, into the clubhouse…

She thinks of Kiira, waiting for her back at home to get tucked in, to get kissed good night.

Thinks of killing Todd, of wiping him off the face of the Earth.

“Pinkman,” she whispers, “Can you untie me?” She hates how raspy and afraid her voice sounds, but it’s a little hard to be composed when she’s staring up at the metal bars, covered by a tarp.

Pinkman looks spooked, terrified, and he gazes around jerkily before leaning in and pushing her gently on her side. He loosens the ropes. She gasps when she’s free and shakes her hands.

“Todd told me to take care of you.” Pinkman’s voice is dead, no emotion behind it. Beaten down.

She moves to sit on her ass, drawing her knees up into her arms. She looks down; the gray pencil skirt is torn up the side and spotted with blood. Her heels are still on her feet. Her hair is down, tangled, starting to stick together.

She finds her voice to speak.

“We need to get out of here.”

Pinkman shakes his head, terrified.

“We can’t. They killed my girlfriend. Right in front of me. Your daughter – they’d kill her.”

“I don’t believe they know about her,” she replies, slipping one heeled leg underneath her and gliding upward as gracefully as she can manage. “And it would take them hours to get out there by car.”

Pinkman shakes his head again.

“I can’t.”

“You can stay here if you want.” She pulls the pencil skirt down and smoothes out a wrinkle. “I don’t plan on sticking around here and being Todd’s…” She cuts off, not stating the words, sex slave, concubine. Concubine sounds better, but hardly appealing.

She picks up Jesse’s bucket, thankfully empty thus far today, and turns it over, stepping on top of it and stretching for the bars. She wobbles on her heels and before she knows what’s going on, finds herself falling backwards, collapsing backwards.

Pinkman catches her.

“You need water,” he tells her, and gets a bottle uncapped, bringing it to her lips and pouring. He sits her back down. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yes,” she agrees, and shuts her eyes, whispers, “Tomorrow.” She’ll escape tomorrow.

***

A lot of tomorrows go by, and each day she builds the tower a little higher. A week in, she decides she’s willing to part with the heels, even though they give her a few more inches in height.

Many more tomorrows in, Todd brings her up to the clubhouse, calls her his girlfriend, touches her again as she screams in her head, _I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, get your hands off me_.

She tries not to shudder as Todd laughs at her resistance, pleasantly calls her “hard-to-get” to the others. They laugh too.

“Not so uptight now,” Jack taunts her. “Give us a spin you pretty bitch.”

She imagines clawing his eyes out with her nails.

***

She waits until the day they bring them both up. They’re playing a game with Pinkman, placing little pieces of cheese that’s gone bad in the corners of the room and sending “the rat” to go get them. She almost shakes her head as she watches him obey.

Then they turn to her. Jack comes towards her and grips her around the middle, presses himself up against her, says he wants to see what the big deal is.

The gun is on the holster on his belt, and she reaches down like she’s going to jack him off or something and it’s oh so easy to grab it. She probably should have gone for Jack first but she wriggles out of his grasp, heads straight for Todd, puts the gun right in his mouth and whispers, “Suck it, bitch!” and fearing a click pulls the trigger.

It’s raining blood and she screams.

She’s covered in it and she’s shaking, twitching, there’s definitely bits of Todd’s brain on her blouse.

She feels the gun being pulled out of her hand and she thinks it’s Jack and that it’s all over now, but it’s Pinkman, like time stopped and somehow gave him enough ability to get his hands free – maybe the commotion has stunned everyone as much as her or maybe she is just losing time, blacking parts of it out already, because now Pinkman is shooting, now Pinkman is killing them all.

***

The first thing she does when she gets back in her house is to throw her clothes in the trash and pull out a new outfit, fix her hair, boil water and fix herself a chamomile tea with Stevia.

She pours a second and places it in front of Pinkman.

“So,” she begins, “Brock. When do we get him? We need to act soon, within the week. Once supply stops, they are going to be looking for me, and for reasons… I would rather they not. I have an exit strategy. We need to do it.”

“We?” Pinkman stares at her.

“I owe you a great deal. You took care of me, and, thankfully, did not take any liberties.” She takes a sip of her tea. “I need to make a few phone calls. Find a way to get Brock. We’re leaving on a flight no later than Tuesday at ten.” She slipped another pair of heels on her battered feet. “Take a shower. Use the downstairs bathroom, I’m not very fond of that one.”

***

She makes a few calls and before the week is up, she and Jesse arrive at the Houston Airport, Kiira and Brock and Chilean passports in hand, courtesy of a man who owed Gus a great many favors.

They end up in a town called Concepcion, in the Southern part of the country.

She buys a little house with an open patio.

One day she arrives home and finds Pinkman singing along to a song where people are screaming a lot. Brock and Kiira run together outside in the yard.

“What’s this?” she asks. 

“Avenged Sevenfold,” he replies with eyes that still have a little gleam in the dullness. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Lydia says affectionately. She reaches out and hugs him as the sun goes down, covering the little house in oranges, blacks and reds.


End file.
